Mirror
by 123Rainstar123
Summary: Some believe that mirrors are portals to and from the Spirit World... AU B/V
1. Chapter 1

**Welllll…I've started a V/B story.**

**I was actually planning to just make this a one-shot, but, when I thought about it, it made more sense to make it a whole story. Frankly, I have no idea where this idea came up—was kinda watching this show that had to with ghosts (don't ask XD) and it said that people believed that mirrors were, like, portals to and from the Spirit World—or something around those lines. As I kept thinking about this, the idea for this story hit me and I just had to write it down!**

**So, yeah, not sure how long this story will be—or how good it'll be for that matter, but, hey! We'll see how it goes! XD**

**Rated T just in case—cuz, there is some axe-murder action (which I actually based off of an actual murder) going down in this first chapter o3o This'll probably one of the most gruesome-starting stories I'll write…**

**And please excuse the fact that my fight scenes might not be very good… *sweat-drop***

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, or Dragon Ball GT in any way, shape, or form.**

**Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to work on some school projects and cry about this TT_TT**

* * *

**Mirror**

* * *

"C'mon, Vegeta! Hurry!"

A young man with hands stuffed in his pants pockets raised his head when he heard his name. "What, Tarble?"

Another young man, who appeared to be younger than the first, walked backwards, his back facing their path, while he faced the eldest of them. His youthful features brightened as a grin spread across his face, his dark eyes sparkling. "C'mon; Mom said we had to get groceries for her while she works!"

The former frowned—although, it was more of a scowl, his thick eyebrows knitting. "I know that, Tarble, but we do not have to hurry, you know."

Tarble's grin didn't fade, and he simply said in reply, "Yeah, but I want to get this done so we can do something else, Veggie!"

Vegeta let out an irritated sight and shrugged noncommittally, his eyebrows slightly rising. "Whatever you say, Squirt."

It was Tarble's turn to frown. His face settled into a pout—which, surprisingly, didn't look foreign to his face—as he glared at his older brother. "I'm too old for that nickname now! You should _know_ that!"

"As am I too old for 'Veggie'."

Tarble "hmphed" and he spun back around, crossing his arms over his chest as he continued to glower. Vegeta rolled his eyes at his brother's behavior; but, there was a ghost of a smile on his face.

Vegeta Ouji, named after his father, was somewhere in his mid to late twenties. He was a handsome man to say the least—his skin a dark bronze color, his hair as dark as night and swept up into a flame, his eyes a deep, dark, entrancing abyss. All the women in his hometown practically swooned over him; he paid them no heed for he wasn't interested in any women at the moment. He was the eldest son of Vegeta Ouji, Sr. (he _hated_ being called "Junior") and was, strangely, an exact copy of his father in appearance—excluding the facial hair.

Tarble Ouji was the youngest of the two Ouji brothers, being somewhere in his late teens. His skin was a much lighter tan in comparison to his brother's; his hair wasn't as spiky as his senior's either—a thick strand of it hung down over his forehead—but, it was black all the same. He had eyes that were soft and gentle, in contrast to his elder's sharp, intelligent orbs. Tarble adored his older brother dearly, and he knew that Vegeta was fonder of him than he let on.

Vegeta sighed again, and his onyx eyes trailed up to the crystal blue skies. It was a beautiful day; Vegeta loved these days of Indian summer. The cool, crisp air gave him chill bumps, but didn't mind it at all, it felt refreshing to him. He did, in fact, prefer this weather over any other kind—not too hot, not too cold.

He loved this town in all its beauty—he had grown up here, after all. It was a quaint little town, peaceful and quiet—just how he liked it. His family was rather wealthy—the wealthiest of the town—which was one of the _other_ reasons why women here threw themselves at him. Eyebrows furrowing once more, he scowled at the thought. As much as he loved it here, he _hated_ its snobby, insufferable women. He swore that if one more woman tried to—

"Big Brother!"

Vegeta blinked, shook his head, and sped up his pace to catch up to Tarble.

"Tarble, wait up!"

After a long day of buying groceries and chasing Tarble around, the Ouji brothers returned to their home. It was a rather extravagant house for its time—a lovely Victorian-style house (with some added flare) with five bedrooms (the fifth one being a guest bedroom), a large kitchen, and a beautiful parlor. Many paintings and other décor littered the walls of the Ouji home—along with a few _mirrors_ here and there.

The two young men kicked off their shoes and strolled into the kitchen, dumping the groceries on the counter. Their mother turned from the stove; however, she still continued to stir some substance in a pot. Soup, Vegeta assumed.

"Oh, Vegeta, Tarble, you're back—just in time, too. Lunch is almost ready."

Vegeta's and Tarble's mother was a gorgeous woman in Vegeta's eyes. He could think of no other girl (especially those who would flirt with him) could make her beauty. She had silky, dark brown hair that was currently tied up in a loose bun. Her skin was the same shade as Tarble's—a soft tan that brought out her stunning hazel eyes. An apron was fastened around her waist, covering her gray dress.

"Thank goodness! I was starving!" Tarble licked his lips at the mouth-watering smell. "Smells good, Mom!"

"Thank you, dear," she smiled faintly.

Vegeta grunted, rolling his eyes. His stomach, to his dismay, growled loudly, answering for him, and the young man's cheeks darkened with an embarrassed blush.

His mother laughed musically. "Well now, Vegeta, I don't suppose that was _your_ stomach growing, hm?"

Vegeta growled in embarrassment and crossed his arms. The kitchen filled with laughter.

Their mother's laughter quieted down as she returned to stirring the soup. "Now, boys, your father has informed me that there's a meeting at the town hall tonight and we're _all_ going. Simultaneous groans resonated behind her. A little feminine chuckled followed. "Now, now, you two, don't act like that. Besides…" She grinned deviously. "Vegeta, you might find a lady friend…"

Vegeta forcefully slammed his hands on the table and roared, "_MOTHER!_"

Tarble howled with laughter, so much, that he started to bawl.

...

After the town meeting late that night, the Ouji family returned home, exhausted. Vegeta was so tired, that he plopped down onto his bed and went straight to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, not even bothering to change into his pajamas.

...

A door opened with an insidious _CREAK!_ and heavy boots thudded across the wooden floors. Something metallic gleamed in the moonlight—something that was deathly sharp. The metal object was connected to a long, wooden handle, marred with scrapes and deep nicks. A hatchet…

The axe head scraped across the hallway floors—leaving a line in both wood and rug—and was dragged towards a bedroom.

The masked figure entered the master bedroom, where Vegeta senior and his wife lay. Both were fast asleep, completely oblivious. The figure approached the bed and stopped beside it abruptly.

The axe was raised into the air, its head glimmering with a sinister shine, and then it suddenly swung down.

...

Tarble's eyes flew open and he sat up, his hair a tad bit ruffled. He was a light sleeper. His room was coated in darkness, except for the soft, pale light from the moon that flooded through his window. He swallowed nervously, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, and flung the covers off of himself, placing his bare feet on the cool wood floor. He cautiously and silently crept out of his room towards his brother's room. Once he reached the said room, he hurriedly shut the door behind him, as quietly as he could.

His instincts screamed at him to GET OUT, GET OUT! but Tarble refused to leave his brother behind. What kind of brother would he be then? He didn't know what—or _who_—it was, but Tarble knew something was _wrong_.

"Vegeta…!" Tarble whispered fiercely, shaking his older brother's body.

"Hrrrrrmmm….five more minutes…" Vegeta mumbled, batting Tarble's hands away.

"Vegeta, I'm serious, wake up," whined Tarble.

"…"

"Vegeta—big brother—wake up now!"

"Hn?" Vegeta's eyes fluttered open, letting out a gaping yawn. "Tarble…what're you…it's two in the morning—"

"Never mind that!" Tarble snapped. "We need to get out of here now!"

"What?" Vegeta sat up—his hair was ruffled with sleep—and he glared icily at his brother, suspicion filling his eyes. "Why would we—"

"Something's wrong, Vegeta! We gotta get the heck outta dodge!" Tarble urged him desperately, pulling on his brother's arm.

Vegeta huffed in exasperation and got out of his bed, grumbling under his breath. He put his hands on his hips and said gruffly, "Look, Tarble, you probably just had another nightmare, so go back to be—"

The door suddenly swung open and hit the wall, the knob leaving a nasty dent in it. The brothers whipped around, startled, the darkness of the hallway visible in their sight, to see a dark figure standing stiffly and wielding a bloodied axe. Vegeta's eyes widened with horror at the red-stained weapon, his heart leaping into his throat.

_No…no, no, no…_

The eldest couldn't form a sound, stricken by the dread that pooled in his stomach. He knew that his parents were dead the minute he saw the blood, never to be awakened from their slumber.

He hoped they had felt no pain…

They stood there for what seemed like hours to Vegeta, his dark eyes meeting with the masked murderer's cold ones with an unwavering gaze. Tarble was trembling, fear laced into his eyes, his gaze shifting uneasily back and forth from the killer's masked face to the weapon, whimpering quietly.

"Tarble…" Vegeta breathed out softly, his voice hardly above a whisper.

"Big Brother—"

The figure lunged.

Tarble yelped, stumbling back away from his brother and the man. Vegeta, on the other hand, snarled and charged at the axe murderer—rich boy or not, Vegeta knew how to fight. The man swiped at Vegeta, the blade barely missing the latter when he jumped out of the way, and the oldest Ouji countered by reeling his fist back, aiming for the man's gut. Quicker than Vegeta expected, the masked man—who, Vegeta had absentmindedly noticed, was a bit short—evaded the attacked with ease. Vegeta felt stinging pain in his spine when the end of the axe handle jabbed him in the back. Effective, but not enough.

Vegeta managed to reach his arm back; his left hand gripped the wooden handle and then he violently spun around, his hand sliding down to make room for his right. He grasped the handle with impressive strength, pushing back as hard as he could.

Meanwhile, Tarble was cowering in a corner, quivering with fear as hot tears spilled down his cheeks. This couldn't be happening! This had to be a nightmare! His parents…he had feeling that they were dead—he was sure that his brother felt the same. How could this be…?

_Wake up, wake up…_

"TARBLE!"

The teenager snapped out of his daze, his gaze locking onto the struggle between his brother and the mystery killer. Both of them had a hold of the axe, both pulling and pushing with equal force. As Vegeta managed to pin the man up against the wall, he yelled, "What're you doing, you idiot?! _RUN!_"

Tarble shook his head, scrambling to his feet, and he frantically ran past the two out into the hallway as fast as he could.

The man's icy eyes snapped to Tarble's disappearing figure. Vegeta's eyes flickered towards the hallway, mentally begging his younger brother to keep going, don't turn back—

He never saw it coming. The man somehow managed to twist the axe—causing Vegeta's arms to crisscross—so that the axe head was pointing to the ceiling. He brought the axe head down and its smooth, flat side clonked Vegeta on the crown.

Vegeta toppled over, letting go of the handle in the process, and collapsed onto the floor, astonished. Spots flitted about his vision; he groaned as he could only watch helplessly as the heavy boots of the masked man hurried out of his room with loud thuds.

He blinked a couple of times, grunting, trying to get his thoughts straight. He then heard a muffled scream and a thud of a body hitting the floor. Vegeta groaned again, once again trying to regroup himself.

_Tarble…?_

"_AUUUGH—!_"

_Tarble!_

"Urg…" Vegeta forced himself to his feet, growling in rage and frustration, the sore on his head throbbing excruciatingly. He touched the tender spot, wincing, and he pulled his fingers back, seeing scarlet on his fingertips.

Blood…

Vegeta looked up at the doorway and was startled—he was afraid to say he was _terrified_—to see the same man standing there with fresh blood dripping from his axe to the floor. Vegeta's pupils shrank and his eyes grew to that of saucers.

_No…no…no, no, no…_

Tarble…his little brother…

An enraged snarl ripped from his throat, his fists clenching to the point of his nails digging into his palms. He was about to do something extremely rash—something that would lead to a sooner demise, before he froze when he saw that man's mask was gone. Tarble—_Tarble…_—must have torn his mask off.

Mouth agape in shock, pain, and hatred, Vegeta stammered, "Y…Y-You're…"

The blade sunk into Vegeta's left shoulder before he could another word out. His words were lost and were replaced with a painful scream as the axe blade was then ripped out of his shoulder, blood welling from the fresh wound. The young man staggered back, his back hitting the full length mirror behind, and he slid down to the floor, leaving a smear of scarlet on the reflective glass.

More agonizing pain exploded from his stomach as another wound was made. Vegeta choked and blood flew from his mouth, his body pitched forward a little from the cough. He moaned in pain, darkness creeping into his vision.

The last thing he saw in this world was the axe flying towards him.

...

Nappa had been a long time business partner and a friend of Vegeta Ouji senior. The two adults had known each other since high school and became partners the minute they both became the owners of their respective businesses. This earned him the right of babysitting the Ouji kids—the little rascals!

The tall, burly man walked down the sidewalk towards the Ouji household, hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling an old tune. He and his partner had planned to go out for brunch on account of the successful meeting last night. They had decided on brunch because there was no way they would be up in time for breakfast!

Nappa reached the house, his whistling quieting, and he knocked loudly on the door. "Yo! Vegeta! You ready to go yet?"

No answer.

Nappa's forehead creased as his eyebrows knitted in confusion. Mrs. Ouji would've surely answered the door. If not Vegeta Sr., then she would be the first one up. He knocked again.

"Hey! Hello? I don't mean to be a bother, but it's eleven o'clock! We planned to have brunch! Hello?!"

Nothing.

"Strange…"

Nappa tried the door. He turned the knob and the door oddly opened. Unlocked?

"What the…?" Nappa muttered under his breath. Peaceful town or not, the Oujis always locked the door—Mrs. Ouji was a worrisome woman for her kids. The middle-aged man unsurely entered, hoping he wasn't walking in on the Oujis getting ready.

"Um…hello? Ouji? You up yet?" he called out, confused. The house was strangely silent.

"Okay…seriously, this is creeping me out—" Nappa stopped in his tracks when his eyes fell on a body lying motionless in the hallway. His whole face paled. It was unmistakable—that was _Tarble._ The rug was dark around the teenager and, Nappa noticed, there was some red liquid oozing from the rug to the wood flooring. He swallowed disbelievingly, hoping what he was thinking wasn't true.

"T…Tarble, kiddo…?" he gulped, kneeling down to get a better look at him. There were several gashes on the teenager's reddened back. Nappa turned Tarble over and nearly gagged. Blood had dribbled from Tarble's mouth and his eyes were blank. "Urn…" Nappa checked his pulse.

Nothing.

Nappa swallowed hard again, finding it difficult to do such an easy thing. He gingerly laid the kid back down, murmuring something, and stood up. After a moment of eerie silence, Nappa carefully stepped over Tarble and suddenly bolted down towards the master bedroom, praying that it wasn't so with Vegeta Sr. and his wife.

He skidded to a halt, running into the bedroom, and was met with the same horror. Both Vegeta and his wife were motionless as well, the same state that Tarble was in. Nappa had to keep himself from vomiting again.

It couldn't be…it wasn't so…

The thought hit Nappa like a ton of bricks. He had almost forgotten! The other Ouji kid—Vegeta! All hesitation was gone as Nappa zipped out of the master bedroom, back down the hall, towards the oldest brother's room. The minute he entered, a gasp escaped his lips. The body of the younger Vegeta was laid up against a full-length mirror, his eyes closed. His torso was covered with horrid wounds—although one was on his shoulder—and little trickles of blood had run down his forehead.

He must've tried putting up a fight…

Nappa's heart never beat so fast in his life—he was sure that his heart would give out. He stood there in terrified silence, staring as Vegeta's body.

It wasn't long after that Nappa had somehow ran to the window in a daze, threw it open, and screamed out to the people of the town who were already wandering about.

"_DEAD! THEY'RE ALL DEAD!_"

* * *

"Why, it is such a lovely house!"

"Isn't it? This beautiful home has lain untouched for years, yet it still holds its original charm!"

"'Untouched'? Why is that?"

"Oh…well, most people couldn't afford this place way back then—as you can see, the architecture is marvelous!"

"Oh, yah! Indeed!"

Bulma Briefs listened to her parents chat with the real-estate agent about the dusty old house jadedly. Her blue, scrutinizing gaze shifted about the parlor, untouched by time. They style seemed outdated, and Bulma inwardly scoffed at the taste of style of the original homeowners. Everyone knew that you don't put—

"Come, come, Bulma, sweetie!" her blonde-haired mother cooed, clasping her hands together. "Let's go see the bedrooms! Who knows"—a bubbly giggle—"you may like one of them!"

"Hmf, sure…" Bulma muttered, crossing her arms under her breast. The 16-year-old was in a relatively bad mood—for reasons one could _only_ guess. She followed her parents and the agent down the hall, the only one noticing the strange dark spot on the rug. They looked at one of the rooms—the agent suggested this one be a guest room—and then continued their way down the hall to the next room.

"This—I'm sure—would make the perfect room for you daughter!" said the agent, showing the Briefs the room. Bulma looked about the room. It was larger than the first room—it had a decent sized bed, a large closet, and a mahogany dresser. Her blue orbs then fell on a mirror that was placed beside the dresser. She arched a thin eyebrow.

"Don'cha love it, Bulma, dear?" Mrs. Briefs asked, giddy.

"Why, yes, it is a nice room," Dr. Briefs agreed with a nod of his head, his lavender moustache twitching.

"…What's with the stain on the mirror?" Bulma questioned, gesturing with her head at the red stain that streaked down on the left side of the mirror.

The agent stumbled over her words at bit. "Oh…that…? Why…it's…paint! You see, the former homeowners were well-defined artists of their time!"

"Oh-ho-ho! Really?" Mrs. Briefs giggled. "How wonderful!"

"The homeowners' kids had this room—I suppose they might've gotten a bit carried away with their paintings!"

"Oh, mah! Such kids they had! Hahaha!"

Bulma scowled, glaring at the red spot. Yes, that was a plausible answer—there had been some paintings hanging in the parlor—but Bulma knew that the agent was lying. Kids or not, they wouldn't paint on a mirror, unless they were _really_ childish…or were innocent toddlers…

"Now, let me show you the master bedroom…"

"Oh, yah! But, I do believe I'm already sold on this house! How 'bout you, dear?"

"Yes, yes, I am, honey—it is quite a lovely house. I'd be able to get some peace and quiet when I work."

"Great! I'll show you the master bedroom, then I'll give you the papers…"

The three adults left the room, leaving Bulma in the room to stare at the mirror. Her feet carried her closer to it, close enough for her to touch it. The teenaged girl looked at her reflection—turquoise hair, azure eyes, pale skin, dark red sleeveless shirt, and yellow shorts. Bulma furrowed her eyebrows curiously, and she tentatively reached out to touch the dusty glass.

It was one of those mirrors that if you pushed it a bit, it would swing a bit—top forwards, bottom backwards, back and forth.

She blinked a couple times, wondering why she was so transfixed about a mirror.

A hand suddenly appeared _in_ the mirror and pressed against hers. Bulma's breath hitched in her throat, but she couldn't move or speak—her hand frozen in place. The hand was large in contrast to her small, delicate hand. It appeared to be a dark tan color, and it made her skin color seem paler.

Her eyes slowly moved up from her hand to meet dark, empty orbs. She didn't move again, despite the fact that she was seeing something that was definitely _not_ her reflection. Bulma stared, mesmerized, into this entity's dark, onyx eyes. This said entity was a man—a handsome young man—with hardened features and flaming, charcoal hair with a widow's peak. He was staring right at her too.

A staring contest was held between the two, each one's gaze refusing to falter, completely hypnotized.

Bulma slowly opened her mouth to say something—

"Oh, _Bulma!_"

Bulma snapped out of her daze and looked over her shoulder when she heard her mother.

"Sweetie, come here!"

The teenager blinked and glanced back at the mirror. The man was gone and she was, once again, staring back at herself. She timidly pulled her hand away from the mirror, and the girl slowly back away from it. Bulma couldn't decide if she should be scared…or not.

Leaving that thought hanging in the air, Bulma left.

* * *

**Review! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yay! An update! XD Hopefully, this chapter won't be to boring for your guys' tastes, but got to build up to the good stuff, right? **

**KimiruMai - Thank you! :D Well, we'll see if your idea of the serial killer is correct. **

**Sim - Aw, thank you! Here's an update!**

**tdh11 - I did. XD**

**Nova.81 - Thank you! I was aiming for that kind of feel, but geez, I don't know if I write _that_ well... XD**

**DINOSAUR215 - Sadly, yes. TT_TT But, I'm glad you like the story! :D**

**nikki-michelle - Thanks :D **

**Disclaimer: I do not own DB, DBZ, or DBGT in any way shape or form (wish I did, but I don't *sigh* )**

**Hopefully, there's no errors, but if there is, I'll fix them when I see them *sweat-drop***

* * *

**Mirror**

* * *

"Bulma…"

The deep, masculine voice that whispered in her ear sent chills down her spine, and yet, she was not cold, but greatly warm in his embrace. She closed her oceanic eyes, reveling in his warmth and breathing in his musky scent, and sighed inwardly. She never felt more at home…

"Bulma…?"

She grunted in response, a muffled "hn?".

"I—"

His voice was cut off when she heard glass shattering in the background. She opened her eyes in confusion. The grip around her tightened and she felt him shaking—in pain?

"B-B-Bulma…" he choked out.

She was worried about him, so she hugged him back tightly, nuzzling his chest.

_It's okay…I'm here…_

She felt him bury his face into her hair and then she felt something wet soak into her head. Was he crying?

"B-Bulma!" he cried out desperately. He nearly crushed her in his arms.

She was scared.

_What's wrong?_

She heard a soft, choked sob from him—like he was in _great_ pain—and he started trembling even more. She swallowed nervously.

_Don't cry! What's wrong?_

She opened her mouth to voice her thoughts, but, an unknown force unexpectedly ripped the two away from each other, sending her tumbling away.

"BULMA!" he screamed.

She cried out when she hit the "ground" hard. When she managed to sit up, she glanced frantically around the endless black space for him, but he was gone.

The tears fell quickly as she started sobbing and she covered her face with her dainty hands.

_Come back, come back!_

She eventually noticed the shards of glass that surrounded her weeping form. Her cries ceased, she blinked, and then she unsurely picked up the nearest one up, carefully so she wouldn't cut herself.

_What is this?_

She stared at the glass, seeing a part of her reflection in it, and soon noticed a dried stain of crimson and a fingerprint…

…

Bulma's eyes flew open and she bolted upright, breathing heavily, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. Her eyes wandered about her room warily, searching for something—anything that might seem off or out of place…

Nothing.

She sighed heavily, brushing her turquoise bangs back before running her hands down her sweaty face.

_That dream again?_

She didn't understand what it meant! The sound of shattering glass, the bloodied smudged piece of mirror…

That man…

He was a strange man, Bulma decided. She could never catch a glimpse of his face—she could only hear his baritone voice, feel his warmth, and see his fairly tone arms wrapped around her slender frame. She had no clue who this man was; Bulma had never seen him before—or rather _heard_ him before.

Darn, why did her mind have to conjure up an imaginary boyfriend that she was _actually _staring to grow fond of?

Sighing again, Bulma glanced at her alarm clock, the red, blocky letters glaring at her in the dark.

**5:15 AM.**

Huh—45 minutes until her alarm went off. Well then, more time to get ready.

The young woman threw the pink-and-purple plaid comforter off of herself and got out of the comforts of her bed, placing her bare feet on the hard-wood floors and wiggling her toes.

She was clothed in a white tank-top that had the word "BULMA" written in bold, magenta letters across the chest and pink pajama shorts. Her blue hair was ruffled and tangled from a heavy, dreamful sleep. Her deep, cerulean eyes were tired—but open, already observing her environment.

Bulma hobbled over to the mirror that had stood beside the mahogany dresser all the years she had been here—11 to be exact. She looked at her morning self, yawning and stretching. Her vivid orbs fell upon the dried stain of red that was on the glass's left side—her right. Bulma had already deduced that it was blood. She frowned softly, and her fingertips lightly brushed against the crusty substance. Most people would've cleaned and scraped it off by now; but, she was not most people and, strangely, Bulma was fascinated by it and the mirror as a whole. It had a dark story behind it—a _dark_ one. A mystery she was determined to unravel.

She eventually shook her head, reminding herself of the other desired task at hand, and walked away from the mirror, not noticing a flicker of a different image inside it.

…

Bulma turned the dial to hot and stepped into her shower, letting the therapeutic waters cascade down her ivory skin. She released a contended sigh, and she grabbed a bottle of shampoo—with conditioner!—dumping a bit onto her left hand. Bulma set the bottle back on the mini shower shelf, rubbed her hands together, and started massaging her scalp. The shampoo foamed and frothed, eventually sliding down her slick locks to the shower floor and down the drain. She hummed softly.

After lathering her body with soap, washing herself down, and shaving her legs, Bulma turned off the hot water and stepped out to dry herself, grabbing a fluffy towel. She patted herself dry and slipped her pajamas back on, tying her hair up with a second towel, her humming ceasing.

She waltzed back into her bedroom and plopped down onto her soft bed. Bulma snatched up a book that was on her nightstand and thumbed her way to the spot where she left off. She turned on a nearby lamp and started to read.

…

As six o'clock rolled around, the alarm started ringing excruciatingly. Bulma scowled and hit the snooze button on the clock forcefully. She sighed heavily. Off to work…

She had already dried her hair, so she went straight to choosing her clothes. She'd fancy up her hair last. Bulma rummaged through her closet, finally finding an outfit she like—a halter top that was a dark shade of pink, a black jacket, and a black, knee-length skirt—and quickly put it on. She then went back to her bathroom, and she applied her makeup and dizzied up her hair into a bun; a strand of hair was curled deviously at the side of her face. She grinned at her reflection. The figure of perfection!

Bulma had been getting to work earlier since she had been having those dreams. She didn't mind it as much anymore; Bulma would get more work done, which lead to being ahead of schedule, which then lead to getting a week off—the early bird gets the worm, they say!

Bulma exited the bathroom and headed towards the bedroom door, passing by the old mirror. She cast a quick glance at it—yes, she _did_ look quite beautiful—and smiled faintly.

_I'll figure you out, soon enough!_

…

The young woman typed away at her computer fiercely, her fingers flying across the keys with graceful and swift movements, her blue eyes scanning every word typed.

Bulma had earned a nice position at her father's company, which she would inherit once he retired. The heiress worked long and hard for this spot, and she wouldn't hesitate to fight tooth and nail for it. She was the future of this company, and she'd die before she would hand it over!

"Hey, B!" a voice rang in her ears.

Bulma's brow furrowed—not in annoyance of the man's presence, but in concentration when she reached a difficult part in her report.

"Hey, Yamcha," she greeted him. "Did you get that cappuccino for me?"

Yamcha smiled brightly as he nodded, "Yeah—French vanilla, just how ya like it."

"Thanks, Yam. Just set it there, will you?"

"Sure thing." The black-haired man carefully placed the Styrofoam cup of the hot brew off to the side, carefully enough so he wouldn't spill.

Yamcha was a rather tall fellow with sleek, black hair and eyes to match; his skin was a dark peach color—almost tan. He and the blue-haired heiress had dated for a few years, but, the spark that they were so sure was there when they first met had faded. So, they called their relationship off; however, they still remained good friends to this day.

"So, Bulma, whatcha working on?" the man asked, casually leaning up against a cabinet.

"Statistics," Bulma replied absentmindedly, scowling when she inputted two wrong numbers.

"Sounds _fun_."

"Ha."

Yamcha chucked a bit in amusement and rolled his obsidian eyes. "Y'know, since I'm thinking of this right now, I've heard rumors from some of the older employees—"

"Yamcha," scolded Bulma lightly, "what have I told you about believing silly rumors?"

Yamcha's eyebrows knitted, and he frowning seriously, "I'm serious, Bulma!"

"Fine, fine, I'll humor you. What did they say?"

"Well," he began, his brow creasing a bit more. Bulma waited patiently for his explanation, her fingers clinking continuously away at the keyboard. She grew confused when his tone turned anxious…dark. "The older locals here have been mumbling about this 'one hundred year anniversary' of some 'murder' coming up in two weeks. They seem pretty agitated about it."

"What murder?"

"Don't know. The people are very hushed about it. Something about 'bad luck' or something…"

He did not expect his ex-girlfriend to laugh—and in the way that she did was more surprising. She laughed like she had heard the funniest joke on the planet of the most hilarious story ever old. He knew that she was a care-free soul, but _seriously_…

When Bulma stopped her chortling, she shook her head, the curl swinging with the motion, and sighed, "Superstitious, all of them."

"But, Bulma—"

"Look, Yamcha, murders happen all the time across the country. What makes this one so special?"

"Well, y'see, I'm not sure—"

"Exactly. Let them be all superstitious about their little murder mystery and whatnot. It was a hundred years ago—people should just let it go."

Yamcha blinked. She had a valid point—it _was_ just another murder, right? Sighing, he ran his hand through his raven-black hair. "Well, I'll trust you on this one, B."

Bulma nodded in affirmation. She reached out for her coffee and took a tentative sip of it. Still a little hot… "If you really must, I suggest going to ask Goku about it—his family's been here for generations, so he out to know. In fact, that's what I'll do after work."

"…Alright then."

"Good." Bulma turned back to the computer screen. "Not that your company's not welcomed, but could you leave now, Yam? I have to get this done."

"Whatever you say, B. See ya!"

"Bye."

The quiet and peaceful air of the office returned when Yamcha left. Bulma sighed and started to type again, immersing herself into her work halfway—the other part of her mind was mulling over this hundred-year-old murder. Surely, Goku would know. After all, the Son family had been living in the quaint, little town for generations. And if not, there was always the library, but _that_ was a last resort. Bulma was a people person, not a straight-up book person.

_I hope he knows…_

…

Bulma had met Goku when she first moved into the town when he was a mere boy of twelve. The good-natured, naïve boy had lived with his late grandfather Gohan (whom, in which, little Son Gohan was named after) up until the day the man had died peacefully in his sleep from old age a few years back. He jumped at the chance to show Bulma around the town, pointing out special historical landmarks and the best places to get food. Bulma had grown a deep affection for the boy, and the two retained their brotherly-sisterly relationship to this very day.

The heiress arrived at the Son house shortly after she left work, pulling her motorbike into the dirt driveway. Bulma undid her hair bun—Goku didn't understand why she needed to look so formal all the time—and searched around for her best friend. She eventually found him in the backyard, playing with his four-year-old son.

"Okay, Gohan! Catch!" Goku gingerly tossed his son the red, rubber ball. The young boy's hands reached out for the ball and his fingers curled around the sphere when it came into range, gripping it with all his might.

"I caught it, Daddy!" Gohan squealed with glee.

"Good job!" A grin lit up Goku's face, priding in his son.

"Hey, Goku!"

The young man raised his head quizzically; surprised to hear a feminine voice that wasn't his wife's. He blinked, and as he looked over his shoulder he caught sight of a familiar blue-haired woman. His soft, black-brown eyes brightened with recognition and he grinned at the friendly face. "Bulma!"

The heiress and her long time friend exchanged a hug. "Bulma! It's been forever! How y'been?" Goku asked warmly, giving his childhood friend a gentle pat on the back.

Bulma smiled faintly, looking up into her tall friend's eyes. He had grown so much since she last saw him! She wondered if he would ever stop growing! To think, that he was just past her knee when he was a mere twelve-year-old…

"I've been fine, Goku," she replied, nodding. Little Gohan peered behind his father's leg, staring up shyly at the blue-haired woman, gripping his father's pants leg. Bulma's blue orbs fell upon the young boy and her smile grew as she crouched down to Gohan's eye level, carefully balancing herself. She noticed that he had grown a lot too—last time she saw him, he was a little 2-year-old.

"Why, hello, Gohan," Bulma greeted the little Son sweetly.

"H…Hi, Auntie Bulma…" Gohan squeaked bashfully, his chubby cheeks colored with a soft pink blush.

Bulma's plush, pink lips settled into a mock frown disappointedly. "Hey, doesn't Auntie Bulma get a hug?"

Gohan eeped in embarrassment, hiding further behind his father, and his blush grew darker, causing Bulma to inwardly chuckle at the boy's involuntary cuteness. Goku twisted his torso a bit and placed a large hand on his son's head comfortingly. "Go on, Gohan. Give Bulma a hug."

Gohan grunted nervously, and his eyes darted to Bulma timidly, the heiress looking at him expectantly. The boy gulped—hesitating—but he eventually mustered up the courage and waddled over to his surrogate aunt, and he awkwardly gave her a hug. Bulma's lips pulled up into a smile, and she wrapped her arms around the small boy, embracing him. When she let go of him, he quickly scurried back over to his father.

"See? Was that so bad?" Bulma cooed. Gohan squeaked again, his face cherry red, and furiously shook his head. "Y'know, Auntie Bulma missed you a lot!"

"Mm…"

Bulma chuckled softly and rose to her feet, checking to make sure she didn't have any dirt on her knees. She turned her attention back to Goku and asked, "Hey, Goku? May I talk to you for a second?"

"Huh? 'Bout what?" The young man perked up. "Is there gonna be a party?—with lotsa _food?_" Bulma laughed.

"No, no, not that, silly!" _Do you ever think about anything else besides you stomach?_

"Aw, okay. Whatcha wanna talk about?"

Goku was astonished when Bulma's expression darkened with seriousness for a moment and lowered her voice, "…I think you son shouldn't be here for this…"

The young father blinked, confusion growing with each blink, and he reluctantly told his son to go inside and see if his mother needed help baking cookies. Gohan nearly jumped with glee and he tottered off into the small Son cottage eagerly, not once wandering what his "aunt's" sudden seriousness was about. Goku's gaze followed his son back to the house, and as soon as the door closed, he turned back to Bulma and asked worriedly, "Is there something wrong?"

Crossing her arms, Bulma replied, somewhat resentfully, "I dunno—you tell me."

The response caused Goku's eyebrows to furrow slightly with anxiety. "…Is…Is anybody giving you trouble? 'Cause I can—"

"No, no." Bulma waved her hand to dismiss the idea. "Nobody's giving me _that_ kind of trouble, but, I _am _having some trouble…"

"Really? What kind?"

A frustrated scowl settled upon Bulma's features, and her eyes decided to glare at a slightly longer blade of grass on the ground. "Goku, Yamcha told me that people have been saying a one hundred year anniversary of some murder is coming up in two weeks—I think, but everyone's so hushed about—talks of bad luck, he said—that I have no idea_ what_ murder it is!" She reverted her gaze back to her childhood friend, her scrutinizing eyes boring into his own. "I was hoping that you would know what it is, Goku—your family's been here longer than anyone else's, surely you would know."

Goku frowned. He wasn't expecting _this_, especially from _Bulma_, of all people. She wasn't the type of person who would ask such questions!

Yes, he knew a little bit about it, but not enough to satisfy his friend's question.

"Bulma," he began, the serious tone evident in his voice, "look, I don't know much about this murder—my grandpa didn't say much about it either—_but_"—he stressed the word, interrupting her when a sound was about to leave her mouth—"what I _do _know from what my grandpa _did_ say is that whatever murder happened a hundred years ago shook the whole town. It nearly tore it apart with suspicion and deceit. It took _many_ years for the townspeople to fall back into peaceful order." Goku took a deep breath and looked at his friend sadly. "That's all I know. I'm sorry, Bulma."

The air was thick with tension as Bulma stood there, motionless, in silence—not a trace of wind or birdsong. She finally uttered quietly, "I'm sorry too." Another moment of silence.

The blue-haired heiress finally sighed, running her slender fingers through her hair, "Well, it's been nice seeing you again, Goku."

"Likewise."

Bulma nodded faintly and turned away from Goku, walking back to her motorbike with a defeated posture. Goku's frown deepened and he sighed as well. When Bulma drove off, the young man returned to his wife and son in their house with a glum expression on his face.

…

Bulma, after taking a shower and changing into her pajamas, sprawled herself on her bed, glaring up at the ceiling. Dang it! All of that was in vain—although it was nice to see Goku again. She let out an angered puff of air and raised her head to glare at the mirror, like it was the source of her problems.

The anger slowly left Bulma's eyes as she continued to stare at the mirror. She huffed in defeat. It was no use…

The young woman slid under the covers, curling up beneath them, and fell asleep, the half moon's light pooling into her bedroom.

Being practically dead to the world, Bulma was not aware of the dark figure that silently pushed its way through the mirror's glass, making a soft pat when its feet touched the hardwood floor. Dark eyes studied the woman's sleeping form curiously, blinking once or twice.

The moonlight promptly caught the figure in its stance, and it outlined a head a flaming black hair…

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**Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N : Wow, an update XD But, only about 2K+ words...my shortest chapter so far O_O This chapter is what I'll call the..."comic relief" chapter, because I was snickering at some of the parts I wrote XD Most likely unnecessary humor, but Bulma meets Vegeta in this chapter so who cares, I need to shed some light in this angsty story XD**

**Sim - I'm glad you want more from this story :D The next is here XD**

**miikodesu - Yep, they "share" a bedroom XD Who knows, it could be Goku's ancestor, I won't say :)**

**Guest - No, I won't. I don't know Tights well enough to put her in the story. **

**peanutbuttergurl6 - I'm glad you find it interesting...and refreshing XD Here's an update**

**Nova.81 - Get excited again, cuz here's an update XD Huh, I guess the haunted feel does kind of fit V/B...**

**The Tainted Heart Of Vegeta - I'm happy you love it! :D I was upset when Vegeta too...and I'm writing the story! XD One of your favorites already? Gee, I'm flattered :D**

**SaiyanPrincessBB - 3:25 AM? O_O But, thank you :)**

**nikki-michelle - Yes, I had to end it there XD**

**DBZRocks153 - Thank you :3**

**Wow...look at all those reviews... *ego has been boosted 9 points* XD Enjoy!**

* * *

**Mirror**

* * *

**1:30 AM.**

She had no dreams or nightmares. There was no explanation to why her body decided to ease itself out of peaceful slumber.

Bulma just…woke up.

Now, mind the fact that although her body was waking up, Bulma herself was still in the foggy haze of sleep—not entirely awake to open her eyes. The heiress remained motionless in her bed, slowly starting to register the quiet sounds of the old house. There were the occasional creaks and cracks, but that was expected, nothing out of the ordinary. Bulma just lied there, breathing softly and evenly, reveling in the silence.

"Why are you in my bed?"

Bulma's eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion at the voice. _Who said that?_ Her eyelids twitched, and she sluggishly opened her cerulean eyes to the world.

She saw a face.

She saw a _freaking_ face…

Bulma blinked rapidly, like she was trying to make the image disappear.

It didn't.

Her eyes then grew to comical proportions, mouth agape, and stared disbelieving at the figure—a man?!—lying _right next to her_. She let out a little squeak—"Ah…"—and nothing more.

He scowled, his obsidian eyes flashing in annoyance, and repeated again gruffly, "_Why_ are _you _in my bed?"

Bulma blinked—which was probably all she could do in her shocked state—and continued to blankly stare at the man. Glaring right back at her, the man impatiently waited for her response. The answer he got was not a pleasant one for his ears.

Bulma let out a terrified shriek, which ultimately lead her to somehow fall off the bed, causing her scream to be cut short with a pained groan. The man leaned over the edge to get a look at the fumbling heiress, clicking his tongue, "Pity. It appears that you were not blessed with grace, hm?"

"Ow…" Sitting up sluggishly, the young woman shook her head to rid the headache—her turquoise locks swinging back and forth—and glanced up at him, freezing. Another scream began to rise up in her throat, before a large hand clamped itself over her open mouth, resulting in the scream sliding back down her throat.

"Would you shut up?" he growled, exasperated. "You are giving me a headache with your incessant wailing…"

Bulma wisely shut her mouth when he took his hand back. Since her eyes had adjusted to the darkness—and with the help of the moon—she was able to get a good look at him.

The man was clothed in a waistcoat—the color was muddled by the gray tones of night, but Bulma could faintly pick it out as a goldenrod-color—and, underneath it, he wore a plain, white, long-sleeved shirt (the sleeves were a little puffy). Around his neck, which Bulma noticed to be fairly muscular, was a white ascot tie that puffed out then tucked under the waistcoat. He also wore what appeared to be brown pants and black shoes. Whoever he was, he certainly had an outdated taste in style…

"Well?"

"_Why are you in my bed?"_

She gulped, gathering her composure, and, when she had finally got a hold of herself, she glared crossly at the man and said, "_Your_ bed? Well, excuse me for bursting you bubble, buddy boy, but the last time I checked, this was—and still _is_—_my_ bed and also _my_ room! What, pray tell, are _you_ doing in _my_ room?!"

The mysterious man scoffed and lazily leaned back against the bed, his arms crossed. He rolled his eyes. "I live her, obviously."

The heiress exclaimed, "Wh-What?!" and scrambled back. "That's—That's—That's a bunch of baloney! You can't—you _don't_ live here! I would've remembered having a strange houseguest like yourself living here!"

"Really now?" said the man, smirking. His hot breath danced across the bridge of her nose—_wait a second when did he get so close?!_ "You say _I'm_ strange? You're not exactly 'normal' yourself, Little One."

Bulma, being the spitfire she was, was about to rebuke him for that nickname—Little One?!—but the insult was jammed back down her throat when she realized how close they were. _Oh gosh…_ "Uh…" Bulma squeaked quietly, frozen once again. He blinked, and he too saw how little room there was between their noses; he pulled away.

He glared at her for a moment, but then the glare softened, and he sighed, "Fine…I guess in your terms… I _lived_ here…once."

"W…Wha? Once?" The wheels in Bulma's head stared turning. "You mean…you lived here before me?"

"…That's what I just said, Woman."

"But, that can't be! No one's lived her for years before I moved in!" Bulma stammered in disbelief. _He couldn't be…!_ "How—how—"

He abruptly stood up, surprising her, and spat irritably, "I'm _DEAD!_" Startled by the rise in his voice, Bulma flinched back, and when he saw this—which was weird since it was dark—he relaxed a bit, shaking his head. He let out a silent puff of air, walking towards the mirror absentmindedly. "I've been dead long before you were born…" He sounded upset about it.

Bulma gaped at him and found herself standing up. "But, that would mean…" she whimpered shakily. The light on her face dimmed gradually to her astonishment. Bulma glanced at him quizzically, and then she looked to his hand. He was holding it up to the light, and it faintly filtered through his hand. Bulma's eyes, once again, widened ridiculously. "You're a—You're a—"

"Yes?" he prompted—eagerly?—and lowered his hand.

"A—a—a…a—a…"

"What are you, a broken record?" he huffed, folding his arms over his chest. "Use your words, Woman!"

Bulma shrieked, "GHOST!"

The hand smacked itself over her mouth again, cutting off her voice. "Quiet," he hissed angrily, a vein visibly throbbing on his forehead. "Are you trying to wake up the whole town?"

"Yes!" came the muffled reply. "My house is freaking haunted."

The apparition grunted. "Took ya how long to figure that out?"

"Shut up!"

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest as he removed his hand from her mouth. "Well, Little One, your sure change your mood quite often, hm?"

"You're not innocent of it either, bub!"

"Touché."

"And my name is _Bulma!_ Little One, not Woman—"

"I know."

Bulma stopped and blinked. She looked at him oddly, like knowing her name before she said so was a crime. "You know my name?"

He cocked his head and arched a thick eyebrow. "Yes."

"How would you know that?" she inquired suspiciously. "I haven't told you before now…"

The ghost grunted and glanced back at the old mirror—Bulma noticed that he had been periodically looking at it—mumbling, "I…I just know."

Bulma scowled, her arms crossing over her chest, and shook her head. "People don't just _know_ things."

"Maybe ghosts do."

A roll of blue eyes. "Alright. I'll assume that you've heard my parents say it a couple times."

_Eleven years ago…_ he thought.

There was a gaping yawn after he had thought this; he figured that it was the woman. "…Go back to sleep, Woman," he finally said.

"It's _Bulma_!"

"I know," he then smirked, "but your temper amuses me."

"Hrrrrrrrrgh!"

He chuckled again and turned around, stepping lightly over to the mirror.

"Hey…" He stopped. "What's your name anyways?" He frowned softly, looking down at the floor. Bulma waited expectantly for a name—she figured he wouldn't like it if she started calling him 'ghost guy'.

"Knowing you," he eventually replied, "you'll find that out on your own…" He heard a soft, frustrated growl, and he inwardly smirked.

"Why is it you can't tell me?" Bulma asked, narrowing her eyes.

The phantom faced her, the faintest of smiles pulling up his mouth. "It's like I'm part of a packaged deal, you see," he stated simply, slyly. "If you find out what happened in this house, you find out my name _and_ what the mirror has to do with it all." He stepped back, part of his body melting into the mirror; Bulma inwardly gasped. "If you ask me, that's a pretty decent deal." He fully backed in the mirror, his persona now within the glass. Bulma unsurely walked up to the looking glass, trying to keep herself from screaming in shock (again).

"You…you came out of the mirror?"

He nodded.

She blinked a few times and then… "Wait a minute," she started to say, her face contorting into a devious expression, "if you were inside this mirror for all this time, does that mean you saw me whenever I undressed—"

Were it not so dark, Bulma would've saw his face flush a bright crimson. "What?!" he spluttered. "How dare you suggest I would do something that vulgar!?" Bulma laughed—she could've sworn she would cry. He lividly growled and crossed his arms again. "Go to _bed_, Woman!"

"Alright, alright!" she cackled, holding her sides and stumbling over to her bed. Bulma tucked her body under the covers, her laughing quieting to giggles. She glanced at the mirror, and she was admittedly disappointed when he was gone. Bulma sighed and rested her head back on the pillow.

She would have trouble sleeping the rest of the night.

…

Bulma yawned loudly, an exhausted tear pricking at the edge of her eyelids, and mumbled sleepy gibberish when her stretched out arms lowered, one of them proceeding to guide her hand to her stomach, in which she absentmindedly scratched. A blank document glared at her through the computer screen, practically yelling at her to _get some work done already!_

_Stupid ghost man…_ she grumbled in her mind as she started to type away, slower than usual. _If he had the nerve to wake me up in the middle of the night, why couldn't he wake me up in the morning so I wouldn't have been late to work…?_

Bulma had slept 55 minutes after her alarm clock went off—six o'clock sharp, remember?—and when she had _finally_ roused from her "death" state, one glance at the clock—_6:55?!_—she had frantically got out of bed, got dressed, and flew out the door—no shower, no breakfast.

In the end, Bulma had arrived at Capsule Corp 10 minutes late—part of it was her motorbike's fault; the stupid thing ran out of gas! The majority of the employees got there at 6:30, she was supposed to be there at 7:00 and it usually only took her five minutes to get to work! Ugh!

So, here she was, grumbling about her dumb motorbike and the stupid phantom as she worked. Saying Bulma was only cranky was the understatement of the century.

"Um…Miss Briefs?" a CC employee peeped in.

"_What?!_" Bulma snapped.

"Uh! J-Just…wondering if you need anything—"

"Coffee—extra cream and sugar—_stat!_"

"Eep! Yes, ma'am!" The employee scurried off in fright.

So, Bulma continued with her curses and mumblings about anything she could blame for making her late to work—mainly the nameless ghost—and waited rather impatiently for her cup of coffee.

_Ooo…if he weren't already dead, I'd chop off his head and—_

"Miss Briefs—"

The heiress, unexpectedly, leaped out of her chair and screeched, "_WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT NOW?!_"

"Uh—huh!" the employee yelped fearfully, shrinking back—Bulma could swear she smelled urine. "Um…your—your coffee, ma'am!"

Bulma blinked. "Oh…thank you, Reginald…" she said rather calmly, taking the cup.

"Um—"

"_Now, get outta my office!_"

He yelped again and took off as fast as his legs could carry him, desperately wanting to get away from the stormy woman.

Bulma let out a slow, calming breath as she came down from her fiery high, taking a sip of the coffee. She made a funny face and then spluttered. "Bleh! Agh—Reginald! You put too much sugar in it!"

She plopped down onto her relatively comfortable office chair, massaging her temples to sooth her anger. The newer employees who didn't know her well enough usually took the brunt of her temper.

"Um…B?"

Bulma sighed and raised her head to look at Yamcha. "Hey, Yam…"

"Uh…you…you alright?" he asked unsurely—he too feared the wrath of her temper.

"Just…peachy…" she grumbled, glaring at her too-sugary coffee.

"Uh…y'know, B, you really shouldn't take your frustrations out on the younger employees—" her ex began informatively.

"It's there fault they test me when I'm in a bad mood!" Bulma snapped, her azure eyes blazing with ferocity.

Yamcha gulped, taking a step back—he didn't want to try with her either—and tried to speak again, "Bulma…I'm not trying to be a bother or anything, but I think you need to calm down…just a bit…" It was quiet for a moment, and then there was a long, feminine sigh.

"Yeah…I guess you're right…" Bulma ran a dainty hand through her hair. "Sorry, Yamcha—I didn't sleep very well last night…"

"Really? How come?"

"Oh…y'know…Uh…"

"…Bad dream?"

"Yeeeeeeeeah…that's what it was…" she lied. _I wish._

He seemed to buy her bluff. "Oh, alright then. Don't stress yourself over it, B. It was just a dream—nothing to worry about."

Bulma sighed again, "I suppose you're right…" Yamcha nodded. Bulma looked at the computer and said, "I should _really_ get this work done, Yam. So, see ya later."

"Yeah. Later!" He left.

The teal-haired woman began to type, all the while, the image of the ghost man burned in her mind persistently._ Was it only a dream?_ _No…it seemed to real for it to be…_

"_It's like I'm part of a packaged deal, you see. If you find out what happened in this house, you find out my name and what the mirror has to do with it all."_

Dream or not, the urge to find out his name was set—so it appeared Bulma had no choice.

After work, she would go to the library and get some answers.

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**REVIEW! :D **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, I am going to warn you all, I may not be able to update as frequently as I have been. The weather can mess with the internet signal sometimes u_u But, anyways, I have Chapter 4 for you all! :D Part of the library scene for me is still a bit...meh... but that might just be me. Hopefully, it makes sense...**

**anon - I'm glad you like my story :) As for the blood on the mirror, the reason why nobody's cleaned it off yet is because of the superstition. Everone thinks they'll get cursed if they touch anything in the house (not including our favorite blue-haired woman's family XD). Bulma hasn't because she can't bring herself to clean it because she feels that it'll help her unlock the mystery of it (one way or another XD).**

**Sim - It's good that you want more XD I usually don't like to keep everyone waiting 'cuz I know how it feels reading cliff-hangers XD The agony of waiting...**

**Guest - Thank you XD**

**Nova.81 - Good thing :D Yes, I thought that part was funny too XD **

**Cornichon92 - Thanks :) Here's more!**

**SaiyanPrincessBB - Indeed XD And thank you :)**

**NNP - Why, thank you! :D**

**peanutbuttergurl6 - *plays Ghost Busters song* She might... XD**

**The Tainted Heart of Vegeta - Yes, yes she did XD *hands you a tissue* If there was a Veggie in my bed, I don't know what I'd do XD**

**miikodesu - Oh, yes, she is strong :)**

**Onward to the story! With a librarian you never saw coming and surprise Vegeta POV (where, you'll have to read to find out XD)**

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Launch Shinhan was a very slender woman with dark blue, curly locks and big, innocent eyes that seemed to sparkle. She was kind and gentle to all those who set foot into the library—bratty or not. She would smile, greet the person like he or she was family, and point them in the direction they sought—whether it be the historical section, the children's book section, or the manga section (which was currently the most popular in the library check-outs). The kind librarian knew who came to the town library and who didn't.

So it was a shock to her when she saw a certain blue-haired woman march through the doors.

"Oh! Miss Bulma!" Launch exclaimed in surprise, setting down the library records. Someone had been neglecting to pay the fine for a lost book…

"Hey, Launch," Bulma greeted with a curt nod, waltzing up to her desk with her usual prideful amble.

"It's…been awhile since I've seen you in here…"

Bulma grunted disinterestedly, her studious orbs scanning the bookshelves.

The librarian blinked in confusion. "Um…may I…help you with something…?"

"Yeah," Bulma said. "Town History?"

"Oh!" Launch adjusted her chair so that it would face the desired course. She gestured to it and said it as if she had rehearsed the very line, "Right down there, next to the country history and world history. …What do you need it for anyway?" Her tone reverted back to normal, adopting a hint of curiosity.

"Research," was the simple answer. And with that, Bulma sauntered off. Launch blinked a couple times once more, and she then rested her elbow on her desk, her palm cradling her chin.

"Huh, wonder what she has to research about—"

She sneezed.

…

Bulma's shoes made soft "clicks" each time the connected with the hard, dusty floors, and they eventually stopped when she reached her destination. Bulma lightly trailed her dainty fingers over the dust-covered books—nobody had been to this part in awhile, randomly selecting one. She gingerly leafed her way through the book's yellowed pages, her eyes catching sight of bolded titles, such as: **Town Festivals, Town Establishment, blah blah blah…**

The pale-skinned beauty huffed—_Nope, not this book_—and inserted the book back into its designated spot, and she swiftly chose another. When she opened the leather-covered book, something on the title page caught her attention, screaming loudly at her.

**Town Residence – Family Addresses**.

Bulma's eyelids flickered, her interest flaring up—they really made books with people's addresses in it? And they put it in a library of all places? Weird…—and the heiress quickly checked the book's copyright date. Okay, so her family name wouldn't be in here.

_Maybe _his_ name's in here!_

The list that was sprawled out before her on the parchment arranged the addresses in numerical order—or was it alphabetical?—with the family surnames following it.

_I guess I just have to find my address—that's also his address…which is _so_ totally weird…_

And so, the heiress's cerulean eyes skimmed down the columns of addresses—she saw the Sons' address—but she didn't find her own.

_Darn, why can't I—! Oh…there it is…_

_You can never find what you're looking for if you look too hard,_ her father had always said.

How true.

When Bulma studied the listing of those had once lived at her house, she found only one surname.

**Ouji.**

_Ouji?_

His last name was Ouji.

She checked the date. The Ouji family had lived there since the house had been built and then the end date was exactly 100 years ago. Something in Bulma's mind clicked at hearing "100 years" but it was discarded; thus, her mind began to piece other things together. The Ouji family was the only family that had resided in the old mansion besides Bulma's own—that sketchy real-estate agent had said that no one bought the house because it was expensive in its time, unaffordable…

But it didn't explain why the Oujis just left. Why did they?

Bulma figured _his_ death was linked to it somehow—she just didn't know how. Consequently, her brain started to conjure up scenarios that could clarify the situation—the family had simply left in mourning when he died and they became bankrupt because of poor planning of an expensive funeral, _or_ maybe they had moved out of the town to seek a better life, and he died after they settled somewhere else and his _extremely annoying_ spirit had returned to his original home…

Nevertheless, none of these theories satisfied Bulma. In addition to the fact that she had no clue how he died, there could be no way the Oujis had gone bankrupt and left when he died—they had to be rich for living in such a house, maybe even _millionaires _of their time! And furthermore, even if they _had_ left, surely for being such wealthy people, they would either donate or use their money for great advancements—whatever they may be—to make a headline of some sort…

But, Bulma had never heard of an Ouji family up until now…

Her brow furrowed in frustration. It didn't make any sense!

_Maybe they had no descendants? Or maybe they didn't do anything memorable—or maybe—_

Bulma released a small, aggravated growl and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her thoughts felt so jumbled and confused. This made her even more irritated. How could such a genius like herself, one who could pick out the smallest of details of piece them together and solve a complicated problem, be frazzled by such a simple matter? She supposed it didn't help that she had a ghost who didn't give her any tip-offs besides he had lived in her house once and had died (obviously) urging her to figure out the mystery of the house—what mystery anyways?

She now knew how detectives and mediums felt…

A blonde-haired woman walked past Bulma, carrying a stack of books and scowling. "Hey, Launch…" she acknowledged her lamely.

"Buzz off."

Bulma sweat-dropped and sighed. When Launch had passed, she slipped the book back into place and pulled out a red folder that contained newspaper articles.

_This looks promising,_ she thought with a small grin, opening it carefully to reveal its contents. Bulma found an assortment of articles that ranged from old and new, separated by dividers marked with the years they hailed from. She smirked triumphantly and flipped to the divider that held the editorials of the year the Ouji house was, for lack of better word, abandoned. As she examined the clippings, Bulma saw that they seemed relatively normal…

_Of course, this is a peaceful town, what did I expect?_

Disappointed by her fruitless search, Bulma slapped the folder close and put it back, trudging back towards the librarian's desk.

Why and how she had forgotten about the murmurings of a certain murder that had happened nearly 100 years ago, one could only speculate…

…

"Launch."

A blonde woman had her feet up on the oak wood desk and she was leaned back in her chair, reading a magazine.

"Launch!"

Launch's eyes lazily drifted up to Bulma's person and then fell back to the shiny pages, grunting in acknowledgement.

"Okay…firstly, why is there a book with people's addresses in it?"

Launch turned a page in her magazine. "Donation from the mayor or something. It's outdated, so nobody cares…"

_Helpful_. "Alright then…secondly, do you have any books on the Ouji family?"

She nonchalantly flipped a page over. "Who?"

"The _Ouji_ family! They used to live at my house!"

"Oh." _Shwp._ "…Nope."

"Wha…?!" exclaimed the heiress, dumbfounded by the bluntness.

"Some old geezer awhile back came in her and tore up everything to do with 'em. The old coot got arrested after—kept screaming 'bout '_CURSE! CURSE!_' …Meh." She turned the page again. _Shwp._

Bulma's left eye twitched uncontrollably. Just her luck… Some guy had beaten her too the punch. She growled in frustration, spun around, and stomped off angrily.

She heard a sneeze…

…Then a pitter-patter of feet.

"Bulma?"

Turning around fast, Bulma met eyes with a dark blue-haired lady. "Oh…Launch."

The librarian asked her sweetly with a soft smile, "Was there something you needed?" Bulma blinked. Hoping that she was just kidding around earlier, the lighter haired woman confidently brought up her question.

"You wouldn't happen to have anything on the Oujis, would you?"

Launch's smile turned into a frown, and she gently shook her head. She spoke sadly, "No, I'm sorry, I don't. A few years ago, an elderly man broke into the library and destroyed all of the information regarding them. Then, he got arrested after when people starting calling in for the disturbance. Poor thing…was maddened by something about a curse…" She sighed, as she glanced back at Bulma, she found the heiress fuming, her hands trembling with defeated rage. "Uh…Bulma…?"

With her face darkened with a deep scarlet, Bulma let out an extremely loud: "_DANG IT!_"

The scream was evidently met with a chorus of "_Shhhhhh!_".

…

A heavy slam of the front door echoed through the old mansion as Bulma entered, a vein visible on her forehead. _Darn, darn, darn—_

"Oh, _Bulma_, dear!"

Her head tilted up slightly to find her mother at the stove preparing supper. The delicious smells of the home cooking filled Bulma's nose and flirted with her senses, resulting in her mouth beginning to water. _Ah…_

"How was your day, sweetie?" Mrs. Briefs cooed in her high, bubbly voice.

"…Oh, y'know…normal." _If you'd call meeting a freaking ghost man normal…_

"Oh, _good!_" the blonde chirped. "Now, supper will be ready soon. Do ya want anything before hand, sweetie?"

"No thanks, Mom."

"Okay, sweetie!"

With a long sigh, Bulma headed tiredly towards her room, her feet dragging across the rug. She passed over the darkened spot (there had been many failed attempts to remove it) and reached her bedroom. When she opened the door, Bulma did not expect to see the phantom male propped up against the headboard of the bed, reading one of her books.

"H…Huh?"

He looked up at her, his onyx eyes flashing with mild surprise at her entrance. Then, he closed the book casually and set it down on the covers. "You're back later than usual," he commented flatly. She blinked, shocked, in response. Was he expecting her earlier?

"Yeah…so?" she challenged, flipping her blue tresses over her shoulder adamantly.

He simply rolled his dark eyes. "No need to be snippy about it."

"_Well_, if you're so intent on _why_ I'm home 'later than usual', I was at the library trying to figure out _your_ name, mister!"

The nameless spirit grunted indifferently, smoothing out his hair subconsciously. "Well?"

"Your last name is Ouji!" Bulma declared, sounding like it was a medal-worthy achievement.

"Correct," he smirked slyly because of her tone. "And?"

"…That's all I know…"

"Hm." His smirk grew, and he nonchalantly put his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. "I guess you'll have no choice but to call me _Mister Ouji_."

"Oh, heck, no! You're not my boss!"

"Well, you better hurry up with finding my name then, Woman."

"_Bulma!_"

He laughed—an arrogant, yet, surprisingly playful tone etching it. "I know."

Bulma growled; her annoyance fueled by lack of sleep—and coffee, was at its breaking point, but instead of exploding (and heaven knows she could), she took this moment to fully examine her ghostly (uninvited) houseguest.

Now that there were no nightly tones to mute out the colors, Bulma saw that his waistcoat was, indeed, a golden color—his pants a dark brown and his shirt a pristine white. His skin was a dark, healthy tan, appearing as though he had been sleeping out in the sun for days, and it also seemed that it was free of all blemishes of any sort. He had a strong, set jaw—it looked to be—with full lips below a straight nose. Thick, black eyebrows—from what Bulma had seen so far—were permanently furrowed, making him seem like he was…tense all the time (but, from experience, he really wasn't around her). His eyes were sharp, intelligent, and dark; and yet, they were not in the least bit lifeless, despite being dead. What intrigued Bulma the most was his hair. Aside from the extremely prominent widow's peak, his hair stood up like a charcoal flame, however, she didn't pick out anything that would suggest he used any hair products to make it stand as such.

He was…actually fairly handsome…

"Woman, you are staring."

Bulma blinked, snapping out of her trance. A smug, knowing grin was plastered on his sharp features, showing strikingly white teeth.

…_Do ghosts brush their teeth?_

She swallowed with difficulty and glared at him. "I…was not."

A deep chuckle followed. "If you find me attractive, Little One, you could have said something."

"Why you little—!"

"Bulma, dear! Supper's ready!"

The blue-haired beauty let out a puff of exasperated air and sent another annoyed glare his way. "_Firstly_," she bit out, "I do not find you attractive"—He snorted at this—"I just met you, for crying out loud! And _secondly_—"

"Bulma!"

She clenched her teeth as she pointed an accusing finger at him. "_Get off of my bed!_"

When she stormed out, his baritone laughter followed her; something bloomed in her stomach, but it was ignored.

…

During suppertime, the family lightly talked about the day. Dr. Briefs asked Bulma about the incidents at work, but she merely brushed if aside, saying that the employees were just exaggerating the subjects. He bought it, and then the lavender-haired scientist proceeded to talk about the dark rumors buzzing about Capsule Corporation lately about a murder.

Bulma's fork froze midway to her mouth.

"Yes, it's going about the whole town," Dr. Briefs remarked, his bushy mustache twitching as he talked. 'I've never seen so much talk since that big storm last week! The Wi-Fi is still down from that…"

"Oh, yah!"

Bulma remained perfectly silent, absorbing the words. That murder—how in the world did she forget about _that?!_ That was another things she had to figure out!

"Oh, and earlier today," chimed in Mrs. Briefs, "Miss Harriet stopped me while I was on my way to the grocery store! She said that they're mad at me!" The curly-top sighed dramatically, "Oh, I guess they're all still upset about my absence from the meeting!"

Well, that wasn't suspicious at all.

Bulma nervously bit her lower lip, her eyes fixated on her plate. It seemed that the whole neighborhood was pinning their superstitions on her family…why? She suddenly straightened when she thought she heard a high-pitched giggle.

"Bulma, something wrong?"

Bulma looked to her father and shook her head. "Nothing, Daddy."

Taking her word for it, the doctor continued the conversation with his wife. Bulma quietly stood up, taking her plate and putting it in the dishwasher, and she silently left the kitchen for her bedroom.

…

Bulma took a quick shower and put on her usual pajamas, crawling into bed soon after, exhausted. _So tired…_

"Would you go away?" she groaned out loud, rolling over to face him. He blinked, his long lashes fluttering, and simply stared at her. Bulma sighed heavily, moving back to her original position, and tried to fall asleep.

It was kind of hard to with somebody staring at her back.

She angrily turned back over and glared at his semi-faded features. "Do you _mind?!_" He merely stared back at the woman. Suddenly, his lips pulled up into a smirk, and he sat up, getting out of bed. Bulma's mouth dropped open at his audacity to just lie in her bed and smirk about it when she railed on him for it! She practically snarled, and when she bolted into a sitting position, she chucked one of her pillows at him.

It went right through him and hit the wall.

He turned to face her, grinning teasingly, and said, "Nice try, Woman."

"BULMA! It's. _BULMA!_"

Laughing at her enraged state, he slipped into the mirror, his shoulders shaking as his laughter quieted to chuckles. Bulma growled, proceeding to slam her head into the remaining pillows.

_The first chance I get, I am breaking that stupid mirror!_

She wouldn't follow through with that plan, and she reluctantly knew it.

…

His chuckling ceased when he saw the young woman fall into peaceful slumber. His smirk slowly flattened out and changed into a soft frown, and he sighed softly, shaking his head. She was a strange woman…a spitfire.

Maybe that was why he found her so amusing…

He calmly made his way over to his usual resting spot, and he sunk down to the "ground", leaning up against the "wall" after.

The place in which he had been condemned to was a small chamber, which was made out of what he would consider deep, dark purple obsidian. At least, that's what it looked like… He was grateful for the fact that, although the room was small, it wasn't too small to make him feel claustrophobic. He supposed it was in between a medium and small size.

He idly looked back at the "door" to his—er, _Bulma's_ bedroom. He had often wondered why he was so intrigued by the cerulean beauty—was it because she was intelligent and had a fierce temper?

She was unlike any other female he had met, he'd give her that.

He couldn't exactly explain why he hadn't opted to tell her his name—he had, instead, blatantly told her to figure it out, and in turn, discover the secrets of his—fine, _her_ house. Maybe it was because he knew that she enjoyed such challenges, picking and searching for the clues to unravel the mystery…

Or maybe, it was because of this feeling that she would set him free if she could find it all on her own.

He sighed. As long as he kept the Shadow Children away from her, everything would be fine.

He hated Shadow Children.

And they hated him.

But, he knew full well they wouldn't mess with him.

He then closed his eyes too, thinking of those nasty creatures, and drifted off into a light sleep.

* * *

**REVIEW PLEASES! XD**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the wait! D: I had some writer's block, and then there was school :/ But, at least there's an update for you all, the first of the new year :D I'm not exactly sure when the next chapter will be up, I've got finals next week (not really worried about that, I'm exempt from nearly all of them XD) and then there's a history project... Ugh u_u But, in other news, I'm drawing picture of the "Do ghosts brush their teeth?" bit. It's so cute... XD**

**C4tloverr - Update. :P **

**Beatrice - Aw, thank you ;D**

**Nova.81 - Oh, yes, Bulma does love those challenges. And yes, even death can't stop Vegeta from being...Vegeta XD I will not say what the Shadow Children are...not yet anyways. :) Awww, thank you :D I try to make it funny. The ghosts brush their teeth thing, I liked that too XD I have no idea if they even do... maybe Vegeta was just very hygienic before he died... **

**miikodesu - They could be... I can't say XD Ooh, yes, Veggie like it XD But I don't think he'd admit it... XD**

**SaiyansTrueBlood - Thanks :) But, I don't think I'd kill off Bulma though D:**

**Guest - Thank you :D**

**peanutbuttergurl6 - Bulma is such a determined woman XD Whatever these Shadow Children are, Vegeta doesn't like 'em x_x**

**KimiruMai - They could be demons, but, like I said, I won't say XD**

**SaiyanPrincessBB - Read on then XD Thank you :3**

**NNP - Yay, she can! ...Somehow :D**

**Cornichon92 - I don't if ghosts actually sleep XD I will say that Tarble will appear sometime, but he's not a Shadow Child o3o **

**The Tainted Heart Of Vegeta - xDD Thank you~ :3**

**Disclaimer : I do not own DB, DBZ, or DBGT in any way, shape, or form...and, seriously, Battle of Gods was awesome! :D**

* * *

**Mirror**

* * *

Salvation had arrived.

It was Sunday.

She would usually get up around ten o'clock on these days—sometimes even noon, still a bit tired but giddy with the blissful freedom of a "lazy-day". Bulma didn't have to go to work today.

He knew this well.

Fingertips gingerly touched the glassy surface, and dark eyes studied her sleeping form. He often wondered, while he watched her, how she could seem so peaceful at one moment, but then tossing and turning the next.

_Strange woman…_ he thought—almost fondly.

He quietly pushed himself through the "door", entering the young woman's room. His gaze flickered towards the entrance to the hallway, desire welling up in his chest, and he took tentative steps towards it.

_So close…_

His steps halted at the very edge, his body wavering, hesitating. Biting his bottom lip, he glanced cautiously both ways down the hallway, tensed. He waited a few seconds, and then he flinched back, his head whirling, making him dizzy. His eyelids fluttered, shaking the dizziness off. He soon glared crossly at the foreboding hall. He could almost hear it mocking him.

_You coward._

Growling softly, he fiercely shook his head, disagreeing. _I'm not a coward…I'm just not eager…_

He sensed her stir and, whipping around abruptly, he froze as Bulma's eyes slowly opened, and the girl raised her head. "Breath" was caught in his throat as she stared blankly at him. Her lips parted—he swallowed—and she yawned, her head flopping back onto her pillow. Bulma drifted back to sleep.

He released a relieved sigh. _That was close, _too_ close._

"Oh, Bulma, _honey!_"

He turned around just in time to see Mrs. Briefs, but he had no time to move. She walked right through him.

"_Hwah!_"

"Bulma!" Mrs. Briefs said, nudging her daughter's shoulder to wake her. A phone was being clutched in her left hand.

"Hm? Wuzza…?"

"Chi-Chi's on the phone, dahling. Here."

Bulma mumbled something incoherent and took the phone, holding up against her ear. "…Hmmello?" the heiress slurred in her speech. "Huh? Oh…yeah, that sounds fine, Chi. …Noon? Yeah, that'll be fine. Yep. See ya then. Bye!" She hung up, and she handed the device back to her bubbly mother.

"Would you like anything to eat, sweetie?" The younger woman shook her head. "Okay! I'll be going to the town hall with your father for a meeting soon!"

"Mm'kay."

So with that, Mrs. Briefs turned around and, while humming a merry tune, sauntered out—Bulma thought she heard a yelp when her mother stepped out the door. Rising into a sitting position, she glanced over to the suspected spot, and, to her confusion, Bulma saw the male apparition sprawled out on the wood floor, twitching.

"Uhm…" Bulma blinked. "Why…Why are you…on the floor?"

He slowly lifted his head, his eyes looking rather glossy, and glared half-heartedly at her. "Your airhead of a mother just walked through me."

Bulma scowled. "My mother is not—…okay, she _kinda_ is…but…how did she walk through you?"

"I'm a—"

"Yeah, yeah, you're a ghost—I get it. But, why—"

"She didn't see me," he interrupted flatly as he sat up shakily.

Bulma threw her plaid comforter off of herself, looking at him oddly. "But…_I_ can see you," she said slowly, like she couldn't understand, and she lightly brushed her bangs back. They fell back into her sight. He huffed in exasperation and brought his knees to his chest, resting his arms on them, and he closed his obsidian eyes, allowing his body to still itself from convulsion. His eyes then reopened, and they lazily drifted over to meet the heiress's gaze. It appeared to him that she was a heavy sleeper; he could always tell—her turquoise hair was messy and tangled and part of her shoulder was exposed when her sleeve slipped down. Yeah, she was a heavy sleeper…

"You're the only one who can see me, Little One."

"Why is that?"

He shrugged, closing his eyes. "Hn."

Sighing heavily and figuring that she wouldn't get any farther with the conversation, Bulma swung her legs over the edge of her bed, placing her bare feet on the cool, wooden floors, and padded quietly over to the male phantom. She set herself in front of him, copying his position. Bulma tilted her head to the side, her large eyes studying his faded figure. He must have felt her diligent gaze burning into his soul—no pun intended—for he cracked an eye open and gave her a pointed look. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Hn." He closed his left eye.

Bulma continued to stare at him, shifting uncomfortably. Seconds ticked by, silent except for Bulma's light breaths. One of his brows twitched in annoyance.

His eyes snapped open, and he growled irritably, "_What_ is it, _Woman?!_", letting his legs unbend and sprawl out. The girl blinked, a bit flustered, and frowned.

"Why're you just sitting there?"

"Why are _you?_"

"'Cause you are! So, why are you?"

"Because I want to—and I can."

"That's not a good reason!" Bulma slapped her hands on the floorboards in protest.

"Says _who_?" he countered.

"Says _ME!_"

He scoffed and rolled his eyes aloofly. "Feh, I disagree with that greatly."

"Who cares?!"

"You seem to, since you so _desperately_ want to know why I'm sitting here."

"Why are _you_?"

"_Because!_"

"Urgh!" Bulma threw her hands up in the air in frustration and defeat. "You're impossible!"

"You've figured that out just _now_? Ha, for a woman who _claims_ to be a genius, you are certainly slow."

"Slow—?! I am NOT!"

"Don't kid yourself, Woman."

"Jerk!"

"Banshee!"

A breath of infuriated air escaped Bulma's mouth; a childish pout took hold of her gorgeous features as she crossed her arms. She glared irately at a few faded red spots on the floor—they seemed to only be in the proximity of the door and bed—her furious blue orbs blazing with anger.

His glare softened gradually, and what one would almost call a smile teased the corner of his lips. He inwardly chuckled at her fieriness. Such a strange woman.

"Since your mother walked through me, it made my… 'body', for lack of better word, 'short out'." Bulma looked back at him quizzically. He sighed. "I can't move much for a while—it drained some of my energy."

Bulma cocked her head, as if she was absorbing the information, blinking slowly. "So…you're weak for a time being?" she asked bluntly.

He scowled. "Blunt much, aren't we?"

"You are too," retorted the aquamarine-haired girl, "so, you shouldn't be talking."

The ghost smirked, "Fair enough."

Bulma couldn't help but do it. "Hn," she grunted dispassionately.

"You don't do it right, Little One," he said with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Bulma smiled faintly, but it then faded just as quickly as it came. "Whatever," she grumbled and stood up. "I'm gonna get some breakfast…"

"Hn."

Bulma glared at the ghost, the corner of her mouth twitching downwards. However, no one could've expected her to smirk suddenly.

The scheming woman, too casually, put her hands behind her back, clasping them together, and she began to whistle softly. The apparition looked at her strangely, arching a quizzical eyebrow. "Woman, what are you—"

Bulma proceeded to walk right through him. She inwardly chuckled in satisfaction when she heard him yelp in shock and a surprisingly heavy thud. The heiress turned around smugly, eyeing his twitching form.

After a strangled groan came from his mouth, he managed to bite out. "What…the heck was that for, Woman?!"

"Payback," she grinned.

He tilted his chin upwards and looked at her fiercely, red in the face. To him, she was upside down. "For _what?!_"

"For making me late for work." And with that, Bulma spun swiftly around, but not before she saw the most furious look she'd ever seen from him take hold of his handsome features.

"WHY YOU DIRTY, LITTLE—!"

Bulma darted out of the room before he could finish, laughing all the way to the kitchen.

…

Noon had rolled around in no time, and the teal-haired heiress had joined her dark-haired friend, Chi-Chi, in a much needed afternoon shopping trip. The two young woman hadn't spent enough together, Chi-Chi had said. Besides, Bulma needed to buy some new shoes anyway…

"So, Bulma," the young mother started, placing a bundle of clothes for her shy son in the shopping cart, "how's life treating you?"

"As fair as anybody else," was the eldest's reply. _Not as fair as I hoped!_ Bulma cried out in her head. _My house is haunted, for heaven's sake!_

"Good to hear." Chi-Chi nodded, patting her thumbs on the cart's handle, and she soon spoke again, "You know, honey, you really should take some time off from work more often—I think the stress is getting to your head."

Bulma looked at her friend, bewildered. "What…What makes you think that?"

Chi-Chi sighed as she placed a box of fruit snacks—dinosaur-shaped, Gohan's favorite—next to a bag of flour. "Goku told me you asked him what he knew about a murder—it's not like you to ask about such morbid things!"

Scowling that her insistent searching for answers had been exposed, Bulma growled out softly in frustration, "Goku…"

Chi-Chi frowned, her brows knitting slightly. "Hey now, don't go blaming my husband—you know how he is. I only asked him why he looked so glum, and he just blurted it out. You know how he worries for family friends!"

"I guess…"

"And besides," the brunette continued with a little pout, "don'cha know it's downright _rude_ to leave without saying 'hello' to me?" Bulma couldn't help but chuckle at her friend's attempt to lighten up the mood. She supposed it worked. Chi-Chi could be quite a firecracker of a woman sometimes, but she did have a good heart and was a rather sweet girl once you got to know her.

The shopping continued with the two girls chatting about life in general. Bulma was, no matter how many times she heard it, still surprised about how early Chi-Chi made little Gohan study—and everyday too!

"I won't have my Gohan become some mindless bum! I'm just making sure he makes it good in life!"

"Yeah, I get it, Chi, but _seriously_, he's only four…"

"Well then! My four-year-old will be _way _smarter than other yahoos' five-year-olds!"

Bulma couldn't help but laugh at this. "Ah, Chi, how I missed you…"

Chi-Chi gave her girlfriend a sly smirk, a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Oh, yes, your life would be miserable without me."

A laugh was exchanged, groceries and other assorted items were paid for, and soon after the two young women made there way out of the store, basking in the coolness of the air and the contrasting warmth of the sunlight while chatting about the upcoming town events—Harvest Moon Festival would be coming up!

As Bulma and Chi-Chi then began a heated debate about who Bulma would be bringing to the said festival, the eldest of the girls accidently bumped into another, causing her shopping bags to fall from her grasp. "Oh!" she exclaimed, stooping down to pick up the bags. Chi-Chi offered her friend some help and quickly began to gather up some stray clothes.

"Uh, pardon me, I wasn't watching where I was going—" Bulma began apologetically as she looked up to the person, and she was shocked to see a scathing glare. The woman was older than her, probably thirty years her senior, with graying chocolate hair and hazel eyes that were sharp and calculating as they looked upon Bulma's figure. "Mrs. Chokorē?"

The aged lady sneered, "Been playing with _fire_ recently, Bulma?"

Bulma blinked, her brows knitting in confusion. "Sorry?"

The other merely scoffed and continued about her way, saying, "Be careful of where you stick your nose into…" Blue eyes followed the hazel-eyed woman with bewilderment, long after the full-bodied figure disappeared down the street.

"Well!" Chi-Chi spat, putting a hand on her right hip and the collection of clothes up against her other. "What a jerk! Looks like somebody was rubbed the wrong way today! Geez, you'd think she'd _at least apologize_. Hmf… …Bulma?"

"Huh?"

Chi-Chi frowned, her brow creasing. "Your bags…"

"Uh…oh, yeah…" Bulma gathered her shopping bags into her arms and, somewhat shakily, stood up, adjusting her hold on the bags.

"You alright, dear?" the younger asked, slightly worried. Bulma gave a nod of assurance to her friend. Chi-Chi wasn't convinced, but she allowed herself to let the matter slide. "Well…I best be getting home, Bulma. Gohan's probably gonna be wanting his fruit snacks. He just loves the dinosaurs …"

The blue-haired girl smiled faintly, knowing the young boy's love for dinosaurs. "Yeah, better hurry home—before his hunger rivals one."

"Ugh, don't make me think of that…" Chi-Chi grumbled with a weak scowl. A chuckle.

And so, the two girlfriends parted ways for the time being, each departing for home. Bulma, however, couldn't shake the feeling that the whole town was glaring at her…

…

A quick stop to her room to put her clothes away, that was all she needed to be home for, and then she'd be right back out the door to do some investigation.

Dumping her newly obtained clothing on her bed, Bulma began to fold each particle of clothing, taking off tags and such, and set them in a neat pile for her to carry to the laundry room for her mother to wash. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling a cold gaze burn into her back.

"You know, glaring at me isn't going to make me go away," she huffed. "This is my room, after all." Bulma turned to see the nameless apparition glaring daggers at her from within the mirror. His jaw was clenched with anger, and his onyx eyes were ablaze, annoyance directed towards her swimming in the lustrous orbs. "Mad much, aren't we?" she asked him dryly, waltzing up to the man in the mirror. "Still ticked off from that incident this morning? Seriously, can't you take a joke?"

Her remark was met with a deep scowl.

"Guess not," sighed the heiress with tired defeat. There was a moment of silence—a slightly awkward one—before she spoke again, "So, yeah, I'll be going back to the library to go research you—weird as that may be. I heard the Wi-Fi's back up"—He wondered what this _Wi-Fi_ was—"so it should be easier to get some information. _But_," Bulma intently leaned in closer to him, like she would tell him a secret that was direly important, "we could avoid all this hassle of playing scavenger hunt for a measly name and have you just tell me it. I'd leave you alone then—we don't need to learn what happened in this house, do we?"

His face twitched, followed by a glowering sneer as he turned away from her, holding his nose high.

Bulma sighed in exasperation, crossing her arms and frowning at him. "Well then, What's-yer-name, since it's _obviously_ that time of the month for you"—his face muscles twitched—"I'll leave you alone. Have fun wallowing in your loathing towards me." And with those words hanging in the air, Bulma finished folding her clothes and carried them towards the laundry room, leaving the ghost to glare after her; however, the hardened gaze would soon soften moments after her blue head of hair disappeared around the corner. A soft, breathy sigh.

How she infuriated him at times…

And yet…and yet, he—

_No, no, you promised yourself! You swore you wouldn't! _a voice screamed inside his head.

_But, that was over a century ago— _he protested back.

_No, no, no! You said you'd never fall again! _

_I know I did…but I…_

_She just met you anyways!_

_But, I haven't…I've known her for eleven years…_ he argued back quietly, shifting uncomfortably.

_NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!_

Growling, he clutched his head, his fingers entangling with his flaming charcoal mane, and gritted his teeth, and he backed away from the entrance to and from _her_ room. He sat down before his legs gave out, burying his face into his knees.

"Leave me alone…" he whined, squeezing his eyes shut.

**Never again.**

* * *

**Well...Vegeta's clearly been alone for _way_ too long... and Chokorē is a pun off of chocolate in Japanese!...which is apparently "chokorēto" according to my English-Japanese dictionary.**

**REVIEW! :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**** Well, this was quicker than I expected. It helps that I had barely any finals today, huh? XD **

**Nova.81 - Oh, yes, she's a nasty woman! X( She will have more to do with the story later on. As for the Harvest Moon Festival, something important does-or did XD-happen on that day, which will be revealed in the next chapter! :D Vegeta does not want to fall again... DX**

**SaiyansTrueBlood - Thanks :) **

**peanutbuttergurl6 - I love that part too. I kinda chuckle when I picture his face XD Mrs. Chokorē will be important later in the story, but for now...**

**C4tloverr - Awwww, thank you :D **

**KimiruMai - Don't tell Veggie that though XD**

**miikodesu - Bulma moved into the town 11 years before she met Vegeta face-to-face, but since Vegeta was trapped inside the mirror in her room, he was able to watch her and stuff (Vegeta, you creeper, you XD). So, he basically knows a lot about her. The girl who Vegeta supposedly fell in "love" with will be revealed soon o3o **

**The Tainted Heart Of Vegeta - YAY! :D**

**Rebellion's Prodigy - Thanks :D The only problem though, is that the murderer is a guy, so... XD **

**nikki-michelle - Nawww, it's okay. Whenever you can review is fine for me :) I loved that part to-payback is a real pain XD Could he be falling for her? O.O You'll have to read and see... **

**DBZRocks153 - Of course they get together XD Wouldn't be a V/B fic without the get-together! (how, you'll see)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, except this story. :3**

* * *

**Mirror**

* * *

Very few people were in the library, the clusters thinning out as the late hours of the afternoon dragged on. The radiant sun was slowly lowering itself down towards the horizon, no low enough to be called evening yet, but enough to lengthen shadows just a bit more, so they could be identified as more than just dark puddles.

Soft murmurs flitted about the old town from the lips of elders, and eyes that had already seen so much glanced at one person in particular, one whose blue hair would glisten in the sunlight. Bulma subconsciously shifted the purse strap on her shoulder, feeling each citizen's gaze pierce her skin with such ferocity that she could've compared it to millions of tiny daggers. The heiress supposed that_ someone_ couldn't keep _her_ mouth shut and blabbed about her investigation of the Ouji house.

_I've never realized how much I hate Mrs. Chokorē! Gah—can't she just mind her own business?! I don't care if she owns her own paranormal investigation business—she has no right!_

Bulma walked up the steps of the grand library, her feet passing over a plaque in the stone of people who had donated to help built the enormous building. She pushed the majestic doors open and calmly padded over to the front desk. Her sneakers made the floorboards squeak quietly, signaling her arrival. "Launch?"

The dark-blue-haired librarian raised her head—she was looking at the library records again—and she appeared to be surprised to see her. "Bulma! I wasn't expecting you. Is there something you need?"

"I heard the Wi-Fi's back up," Bulma answered plainly, implying her need, "is that true?"

Launch nodded, her shiny, full curls bobbing. "Yes—are you in need of a computer? Is it for personal of business use?"

"Personal."

"Alright then! I'll unlock it so you can use any website!"

The library had a policy in which to use the internet from its computers, one had to tell the librarian what it would be used for—personal or business (school was put under business). If it was for business, a person could only access the sites the library provided; as for personal, the librarian would have to unlock the internet sites on a certain computer so the user would have the ability to search any site out there.

Launch tapped a few keys on her keyboard and clicked the mouse button. "Okay, Computer Number 7 is unlocked."

"Thanks, Launch."

"You're welcome!"

Bulma headed over to her designated computer, and she situated herself on the cushioned chair, shifting slightly. She took the mouse and guided the cursor over to the web browser button, causing it to pop up in her screen. After she fired up the internet, her fingers glided over the keys gracefully as she typed into the library's search engine.

**Ouji.**

The search results loaded, and they soon appeared on the screen.

_Alright, Ouji means 'Prince'—huh, his last name means 'prince'… Somebody Prince…Prince Somebody—agh, focus, Bulma!_

She quickly scrolled down the page, scanning for anything thing that screamed at her 'Ouji family'; but, after 100 pages, she gave up. _Nothing but a bunch of crap!_ _Darn it!_ Bulma leaned back in her chair, her eyebrows scrunched up in frustration. She gently sucked on her lower lip, putting her thinking face on. She doubted that if she looked any further on simply "Ouji", she wouldn't get anywhere. If only she knew his first name!

_But that's why you're here, remember? _

Bulma sighed, crossing one leg over the other, and stared up at the high ceilings. The chillness of the computer lounge gave her goose bumps on her arms and legs.

_C'mon, Bulma, think, he must've lived a long time ago—and the Ouji family isn't well known outside this town—I think… Oh, what to put, what to put—oh! I know!_

She quickly typed in her address in the search box and hit Enter.

"C'mon…"

Results blipped up into her sight, a smile finding its way to her lips…until one word caught her eyes.

**Murder.**

The triumphant grin faded from her face, a kind of feeling welling up into her chest and constricting her heart Bulma could only guess was dread. She swallowed nervously in attempt to quell the choking emotion, and she tentatively clicked the link to the web article. The anticipation made her skin crawl—_itch, itch, itch…_

When the article loaded, Bulma's blue orbs stumbled upon its title that was displayed in all bold and capital letters, like the author was shouting at her.

**THE OUJI TRADEGY—THE MURDER THAT TORE A TOWN APART.**

_So…Goku wasn't kidding…_

Although hesitant to what she might find, Bulma started to scroll through the story, absorbing every word.

"_On September 15__th__…_"—the year, she realized, was nearly one hundred years ago—"_fear and paranoia had replaced the normally serene setting of the quiet little town know as Saiya…"_

Well, that was never a good sign.

"…_It had been a peaceful day, the only buzz was about the Harvest Moon Festival coming up in two days. A town meeting was to be held at the town hall by the committee of the Festival—hosted by the esteemed Mayor Yasa…_"

_Okay, town meeting—fun…_

"…_However, it would be the last time anyone would see the Ouji family alive…_"

Bulma froze after reading the familiar surname. _He was m-murdered? Oh…I…_ A tiny shiver shook the young woman's body, her left hand gripping her pants leg, and a fear of reading on struck her. She was living in a house were people had been killed!

_I…I don't think I should…_

_Don't be cowardly! You got yourself into this, so you'll get yourself out as well!_

Determined to prove her cowardice wrong, Bulma took a deep breath—inhale, exhale—and she furrowed her brows in quiet determination, continuing.

"_The Ouji family had returned home late that night, exhausted from the meeting prior. The residents of the grand mansion had bedded down for the remainder of the night, planning to sleep in the next morning…_"

Bulma gulped, her azure eyes scanning the black, plain text before her thoroughly. The people still at the library would pass by her hunched over form, each giving her odd looks as a look of absolute horror was painted on her lovely features, and some would peek over her shoulder, read a paragraph or two, and shake their heads. The younger ones, who didn't know any better, would snicker and snort and be about their way. An unruly teenager even threw a ball of crinkled up paper at her head.

"…_A family friend and business partner of Vegeta Ouji, Sr., Nappa, had found them in their gruesome state when he, as the man claimed, had been going to the house to celebrate the success at the meeting last night. Police further inspected the crime scene of the murder and discovered the killer had managed to enter the house unnoticed, judging by the broken back door, and hid in the attic until the Oujis returned. The weapon of choice was later found discarded under the steps to the house—a bloodied hatchet. Officials were unable to trace the weapon back to its handler, and although there were a few suspects, no one was arrested for committing the crime, causing the case to be dropped._

"_In the aftermath of the tragedy, Saiya was wrought with beliefs of deceitfulness among its citizens, which soon led to riots and other acts of violence—none were killed during this. It took many years for the townspeople to reestablish their calm order. The Ouji residence has thenceforth laid abandoned since the horror took place within its walls. Locals of the town, to this day, believe that the spirits of the Oujis haunt the very premises, saying that all who enter will be cursed for eternity._"

There was a bibliography.

It was then that Bulma released a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

She noticed a photo gallery at the bottom of the page.

_Do I dare?_ Bulma wondered.

An unknown force guided her cursor over the gallery link, blowing up the box to a full page. Bulma looked at the few picture thumbnails with a tentative gaze. Hesitantly, she clicked the first picture.

She nearly gagged.

The photo depicted the bodies of the dead family in all its black-and-white glory. Despite its lack in color, wounds could be clearly seen, as well as the darkened splotches of blood. Gashes littered their torsos—some blows were to the parents' heads—and the area around them was stained with blood. Bulma looked to her ghostly houseguest's mortal shell, puzzled on why he was the only one wearing formal clothing.

Blood—which appeared to be nearly black in the picture—trailed down his forehead and from his mouth, dribbling down to his neck, and the heiress had to cover her mouth to hold back a gasp. His…alright, _handsome_… features were contorted into what one would call sheer agony. Bulma had never seen such a look in her life—even the panels of fighting manga couldn't match the pain in his face.

She was starting to regret walking through him earlier. What had he done to her? The poor guy had been murdered, for heaven's sake! She was only late for work!

Afraid that she was going to bawl if she stared at this picture any longer, Bulma checked the next few pictures. The house, the funeral procession, the accursed axe…

Bulma came across a family portrait of the Oujis—the very last picture in the gallery. She saw him in the bottom right, sitting under his standing parents and next to a teenager—his brother? Bulma's eyes fell to the description.

It had their names.

**Top left: Vegeta Ouji, Sr.; top right: Talerē Ouji; bottom left: Tarble Ouji; bottom right: Vegeta Ouji.**

_Vegeta…_

His name was Vegeta.

…

Bulma kicked a rock with her shoe—it skipped out into the road—and stuffed her hands into her pockets, staring down at the concrete sidewalk.

"_It's like I'm part of a packaged deal, you see. If you find out what happened in this house, you find out my name and what the mirror has to do with it."_

Boy, did she find out alright.

When Bulma glanced up, she noticed that she was by Shenron Cemetery. Maybe…?

Her feet moved on their own accord, carrying her through the rickety gate, down the rows of graves to the O section.

She found them.

The family's graves were placed side by side, perfectly straight like soldiers, arranged by oldest to youngest. _Vegeta's_ grave was the second to last. All four of the headstones were old and cracked and chipped, decorated with yellowing moss. Bulma, however, could still read the engraving.

It stated his name first in large lettering, then his birth and death—he was 28-years-old?—and, lastly, his epitaph.

"**My life fell like dew**

**Disappears like dew**

**All of this world**

**Is a dream after dream." **

Bulma almost cried.

She sank to her knees, reading the verse with sorrowful eyes. The stone seemed to leer at her, glaring into her soul and rooting her down to the earth.

Life…it was so cruel…

Bulma couldn't explain why she began to clean of the moss and grime from his headstone. Maybe it was because she didn't like looking at dirty things, or maybe she couldn't keep her hands still for another moment…

Or maybe…

…

The heiress returned home just as the sun slipped under the horizon. She figured her parents were either still out and about or in bed. Bulma headed right past the kitchen—she couldn't even think of food after…after…

Thus, the 27-year-old woman walked towards her room, appearing as though she was in a trance. She numbly opened the door to reveal her phantom roommate standing there, glaring at her teasingly.

"Well, somebody's home late," he pointed out, his baritone voice oozing with sarcasm, like he really was teasing her. He smirked, "Gosh, your generation has such a 'fascination' with libraries that it's almost as if—" He cut himself off when he met her empty gaze, seeing how…off…she seemed. His smirk fell, and he frowned—almost worriedly—and furrowed his eyebrows. "Bulma?"

When she looked at him, all Bulma could see was his body covered with blood, not even registering his voice. She imagined the scarlet liquid leaking from the various wounds he had unwillingly received from an axe maniac, soaking into his shirt and turning the fabric red. She gazed into his onyx eyes, utterly lost in the black depths. How could he have such eyes filled with life when he was dead? Even in the family picture, Bulma saw the fire in his eyes, showing both pride and a will stronger than steel. Could she admit to herself that she was…_afraid_ if she saw his lively orbs dulled?

"…Bulma?" A hand lightly caressed her face, a touch that was gentle—too gentle to come from a mere stranger… Bulma blinked, her eyes returning to normal. The ghost pulled his hand away and let it hang at his side, slightly blushing for touching her…

Bulma frowned, sorrow pooling into her cerulean eyes. "Vegeta," she stated, a little too monotonous and sad for herself, "your name is Vegeta."

Vegeta blinked in surprise, but nodded in confirmation. "Yes." He hadn't thought that she'd figure that out so quickly! But, then again, this was Bulma…

"You…" she continued quietly, pulling Vegeta out of his thoughts, "you lived—and died—here almost a hundred years ago… You had a little brother named Tarble…your mother's name was Talerē…and you were named after your father…" He nodded again, cringing inwardly at the mention of his baby brother. "You were…killed—no, _murdered_…here, in this room." Bulma moved past him dully towards the old mirror, and Vegeta turned around so he could follow her. "This…this is yours…your blood," she whispered, brushing her fingers across the dried substance. Vegeta found it strange why she wasn't grossed out by it. Weren't women supposed to freak over guts and gore? Guess not…

"And there's more of your blood by the bed on the floor—you put up I fight…" Bulma torpidly persisted, her movements appearing limp. "The stain in the hallway rug…that's Tarble's blood"—Vegeta wished desperately that she wouldn't mention Tarble anymore—"and…I'm sure there's blood in Mom and Dad's room—your parents'…" The woman swallowed slightly, gathering her composure before she broke.

Vegeta said nothing, but simply let her speak. He didn't like how she sounded—she sounded small, tired, _weak_. Bulma was _not weak._ She was a steadfast, stubborn woman, with a sharp tongue and spirited attitude. She was strong—she could handle anything!

But even a woman like herself could only handle so much.

Vegeta crossed his arms over his broad chest, intent, but not happy, to listen to her findings.

"You died by an axe—so many wounds…" Bulma shuddered, hugging herself when she pictured his body covered with the deep slashes that had cut so deep into his skin. Vegeta took a step closer to her. "But…the only thing I didn't find is why you're in the mirror." She turned to him, looking up slightly to meet his eyes. "Why are you?"

The young apparition man blinked, sighing softly. She did this much, so… "I…died up against it, so my spirit got trapped inside the mirror. I'm…basically…_bound _to it." He and Bulma looked at the mirror, but only Bulma saw her reflection. "There's a legend here that says the mirrors are portal to the next world, but if they aren't covered when somebody passes from this world, their spirit is trapped inside—they can only walk the place where they died."

"What happens if the mirror breaks?"

Vegeta shrugged, grunting, "I don't know."

"Oh…"

Vegeta glanced at the blue-haired girl, his frown deepening when he saw the mournful look in her eyes. Why should she mourn for him? He died long before she was born—why did she have the need to mourn his death? Did she pity him? No, that wasn't the look in her eyes. Maybe it was because of how he died…

"…I didn't feel anything else after the third blow," he offered softly. Bulma only grunted, nodding slightly.

"…I'm going to bed," she decided. "'Night…"

Noticing that she didn't say _good_ night, Vegeta replied with the same word, "'Night." He sunk back into the mirror without another word, and he turned away when she started to undress and change into her pajamas. She must be traumatized enough so she didn't care who saw her undressed. He heard her slip into bed and let out a long, tired sigh. Vegeta looked back at her sleeping form, his eyes lingering on her face a bit _too_ long for his liking. He sighed as well and settled down for the night.

Bulma stared blankly up at the ceiling, her blue eyes becoming dark with the darkening surroundings.

It took her a while to slip into the dark deepness of slumber, while thoughts of murder and a bloodied Vegeta on her mind…

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**Saiya - Pun off of Saiyan/Saiyajin, however you want to say it :3**

**Yasa - Yasai, vegetable in Japanese (switch it up, you got Saiya!)**

**Taler****ē (or Taleree) - Pun off of vegetable, using only the T, E's, and A. My name for Vegeta's mother, since I have no idea what her actual name is... u_u**

******Review! :D **


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